


Harry Potter Gets Bandersnatched

by machiavelli



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Interactive Fic, M/M, i just do the writing, will add more tags as the story progresses, you call the shots here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 11:44:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17827940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/machiavelli/pseuds/machiavelli
Summary: This is an interactive HP/TR fic. Here's how it works:I write short, 1-2k chapters (mostly, although this can be extended based on how complex we go with this), at the end of which, you will be presented with a choice.You, as the reader, need to comment on which line of action you want Harry to take, and the majority vote is what I'll write.Let's try it?(Also, happy if you want to comment on where you want the overall plot to go - want to see some barista/city worker slash? Doctor/patient? Do you want fluff or angst? Let me know!)





	Harry Potter Gets Bandersnatched

Harry wants to cry.

He's so hungover that he's absolutely, definitely still drunk. His stomach heaves as he rolls over, wine-stained mouth bitter with the taste of alcohol. It may be childish and petty but he's refusing to open his eyes - if he does, it's the first step to waking up and he can't quite face the thought of having to confront how bad he feels. 

He pretends to sleep for another five minutes of room-spinning terror. It's amazing: his face is buried in the pillow but he still  _knows_  the earth is swaying.

It takes a further ten minutes to realise that what he currently has wrapped around him in a make-shift cocoon... is not his duvet. Harry takes a subtle sniff - it's sweet and a little spicy, definitely nothing like his own detergent. For some strange reason it makes him feel a little better. 

And then it sinks in. This  _is not his duvet._

Oh god. What has he done?

And more importantly, how is it possible for his eyelashes to feel so _gritty_? He considers this for a few slow heartbeats, and then promptly decides that the best thing to do in this situation is to go back to sleep. He can already feel the sweet pull of utter nothingness (where his head doesn't feel like someone particularly vindictive is squeezing his brain between their fingers) beginning to slip back towards him, just within reach.

Harry tosses his self-respect to the side and puts up no fight, welcomes it back with open arms. He should really drink some water but... how terrible he feels is a problem for future Harry.

Just before he drifts off, he feels the bed beside him shift as the weight of another person slips in behind him. All the cells in his body ache; as much as he knows he shouldn't be enjoying it, it's nice to have the hard, velvety wall of heat firm against his spine, anchoring him down a bit. He sleepily squirms, wriggling his back a bit closer into the curve of their front, and hears a quiet chuckle in his ear.

Future Harry's problem.

 

 

 

*

 

 

Harry groans as he wakes up, three hours later. This time the sun is spilling through the gaps in the black-out curtains, hot buttery daylight reaching in from the floor to ceiling windows on one side of the room. It wakes him up a little, and he freezes as reality starts to permeate his slow-chugging brain. The bedroom he's in is decidedly  _not his_  - for one thing, it's huge, and is certainly  _not_  his dingy little student flat. It's tastefully bland, the kind of interior-designed but not really lived in chic that's fashionable right now, all nude-tones and earthy greys. The bed is also disgustingly, illogically big. It could fit five Harrys in - _nobody_ needs a bed this wide.

Which brings him to his current problem. There is somebody (presumably another man, judging by the weight of their arms as they form a cage of sorts around Harry's body) curled up against him as a big spoon. Whoever the stranger is, their ribs are rising and falling with each smooth breath, and Harry distantly realises that he's wearing a soft, oversized shirt that he doesn't recognise, and  _that's all._ In other words: he's naked from the waist down.

 _Ok Harry_ , he thinks to himself, keeping pointedly calm, _what the fuck happened last night?_ He thinks as hard as he can, screwing his face up in concentration, but there's nothing. A huge black memory void paints it's way over the whole evening - from the time Harry left his flat to go to the bar to waking up feeling like death this morning.

"Yep, that's exactly what you look like when you come."

Harry somehow manages to choke on air. He feels his cheeks flush with mortification, and slowly, hesitantly turns round. It puts his head on the stranger's chest (warm, firm, somehow extremely comfortable), and Harry rears back and worms up the bed so he has better perspective.

The man gazing up at him is incredibly fucking attractive.

Harry is half patting himself on the back, half annoyed at himself for this entire situation. The man has a long, narrow nose, beautifully sculpted lips and thick eyebrows, currently raised in amusement. His chestnut hair is messy from sleep (and Harry doesn't let him think about the fact it might be messy from more than just that), curling around startling dark blue eyes. He's naked, lean lines of muscle forming the curves on his arms as he raises himself up on his elbows. He looks like he's trying not to laugh, and Harry realises he's been staring.

"It was a joke, Harry," the man huffs out, lips curling.  _Wait. Does he mean that's not what Harry looks like when he comes because he's seen it? Or that he has no idea because they didn't sleep together?_

Harry gives him a weak smile, before realises this beautiful stranger knows his name and he has absolutely no idea of his. "Right," he starts, and then realises he has no idea what to say. 

The stranger takes pity on him. He stretches, showing off a lean, flat stomach, abs visible as the sheet shifts, before gracefully rising to his feet. Harry doesn't know where to look - he's completely naked. He settles for his collarbones, tries to ignore the fact that there is a naked man a metre away who looks like some kind of Michelangelo sculpture.

"God, darling, you certainly weren't this shy last night," the man says silkily, turning and making his way to the door, grabbing some trousers off the back of the chair and tugging them on. How does he even manage to make that action so sexy? It's unfair. 

"Is that so?" Harry asks, smiling brightly, before face-palming with the pillow.

"I'm going to make coffee - feel free to join me after you finish whatever... existential crisis you're having," the man says, throwing him a glance over his shoulder and gesturing vaguely. Harry tears his eyes away from a rather spectacular arse to blush even more.

"It's Tom, by the way. You certainly seemed to enjoy screaming it last night," he continues, sauntering out the door with a wolfish grin.

What an arrogant _prick_.

Harry glares at the door, before flopping back onto the bed and staring at the annoyingly cheerful blue sky out the window. What should he do? Should he stay for coffee and try to figure out what the fuck happened last night?  _But the guy seems like he would enjoy teasing him far too much_... Harry whines to himself, and he's feeling so  _fragile_. Should he just sneak out? Would it be better to package this night up under the 'mistake' category and escape?

Wait until Ron hears about this... He'll never fucking live it down.

 

 

 _< sneak out unnoticed>_ OR  _< join Tom in the kitchen for coffee>_

**Author's Note:**

> i'm excited to see where we go with this!! already have a few ideas for each option hehe


End file.
